Stay
by Zoey Rowan
Summary: She had always known he was going to leave...but she had still given in, allowed herself that small hope. One of my takes on the sudden disappearance of our least favorite pug-faced pureblood.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters from the series. They are the property of JK Rowling and the various publishing houses and movie studios.

* * *

She knew it wasn't supposed to be like this.

She hated what she had been reduced to, hated knowing that even though he professed to love her and only her, that his wife meant nothing to him, he still returned to her. She hated that she allowed herself to give in, to go along with this façade.

He had sworn, when this had started, that he was going to leave her, leave his wife, that they were already separated. That any day now, his lawyer was going to serve the divorce papers and that would be the end of it. She had listened, because he was handsome, and he was rich and she had always been just a little bit in love with him. But his promises had always been lies, she should've known that, it had always been like that with him.

She knew it wasn't supposed to last.

She had known it from the first moment she took his hand at the masked dance the Notts threw in honor of Theodore's engagement to Goyle's little sister Stephanie, a pretty child who had, fortunately, inherited her mother's delicate Rossier features, rather than the thick Goyle stature.

She had known who he was, had always known the way her hand fit in his, had recognized the aristocratic half-features revealed by the domino mask he wore. He had on a large floppy hat that had covered his unmistakable hair, a hat that went with his billowing white shirt, tight black dragonhide pants and boots and swirling black cape. She had to smile. They had both read the Three Musketeers while spending the summer of their tenth year in the care of her rather eccentric uncle. She swept him a curtsy and took his hand, allowing him to draw her onto the dance floor. She sighed in pleasure as her deep green skirts swished across the floor, the dance a slow, friendly waltz.

She had known where it was going to moment his grip tightened on her wrist, grinding the delicate bones together painfully. She gasped softly, her eyelids fluttering in a mixture of pain and anticipated pleasure. She knew it was wrong, she knew she should pull away and walk away, social consequences be damned, but she didn't. Her wrist went limp and unresisting and she turned her head slightly to the side, baring her slim neck to his eyes. Submissive, that's what she was, always submissive, to him and only him.

When he whipped her that night, she allowed herself to cry, tears of joy mixed with tears of pain. When he took her, hard and fast and messy, she had closed her eyes and savored it, had allowed herself to hope that, finally, he would be hers.

And when he had left the next morning, back to his beautiful wife who had not provided him with an heir, but gave him the respectability and political power that his family had lost after the War, she had thought that was it; that he would leave and not come back.

But he had, he had owled her the following week, asking to meet with her in a _private_ setting. She had known what he meant, had known he was just going to use her and then cast her away again. But she had written out her acceptance and had allowed him into her manor that night, had allowed him to do unspeakable things to her once more.

She had let it go on for far too long, for years before she had discovered that she was pregnant. She had dreaded the idea for as long as she had carried on with him, had feared what he would do if she carried his child. Briefly, she had considered running away, starting over, claiming to be a widow and raising her child in peace. But, as always, she gave in, knowing how he craved a child to carry on his line. She had told him, had carried the child to term because she was to weak willed and cowardly to defy him.

When the child was born, he had taken it from her, had denied her even a moment with her child. He had taken the child and given it to his wife to raise, to love, to teach. She had refused to see him again after that. That final blow, that final act of callousness, that was the last straw.

She was there, watching in the shadows when Draco took Scorpius to the Hogwarts Express for the first time. She watched as Scorpius hesitated before giving Draco a quick hug, pressing his lips gently against Astoria's cheek before disappearing on to the train. Her heart clenched painfully, hurt beyond reason that her son, her precious baby boy who she had carried for nine months, was now waving from a train window, shouting "Goodbye Father, Goodbye Mother!" Mother! _Mother! _Oh, how those words were a knife to her heart.

That title was not hers, she knew that, but still, it pained her.

Pansy had always known it would not last. But that didn't mean she had to stop hoping.


End file.
